Pictures of the Past
by Zoey Rowan
Summary: A picture says a thousand words and a book of them tells a history so powerful and magical it is impossible to believe. When a descendant of Eragon Shadeslayer finds a photo album put together by him, the tales are once again told. A/U, Shadeslayer tale.
1. Prologue

Prologue

"Grammatera?"

The old elf smiled at her great-great-great-granddaughter and held out her hand to take the large, leather bound book. The breath hitched in her throat as she shakily traced the dragon stamped into the dark leather.

"Dear heart, where did you get this?" she whispered, her voice oh so soft. The child, her dark brown eyes serious, pointed in the direction of the forest Du Weldenvarden.

"I found it in a cave in the forest," the young girl said, confused by her elder's reaction. The old elf closed her green eyes, eyes that saw the world as if it was covered in a fog. But that did not mean her memories were dim, no there were as bright as day. She remembered watching her father put this book together, remember him telling her the story behind each. She had been fascinated by the stories, she had been over fifty, but she had drunk in every word as if she was a child and still remembered them, well over eight centuries later.

"What is it, Gran?" the girl asked.

The old elf looked at the young one and for the first time in ten years, she was able to see clearly. She saw the young one, saw her unruly dark brown hair, her serious brown eyes, the human cast to her features. The human blood had thrown true in this one, she thought, brushing the child's hair out of her face. This one will do great things, like her ancestor.

_Oh father, if only you could see this child, _she thought.

"This is a very special book," she said, brushing her fingers over the cover. "My father made it, before he left Alagaesia."

The girl's eyes widened and sparkled with excitement. "You mean…_Rider Eragon?_"

Aiedail laughed. "Yes dear, Rider Eragon. He made this book, this picture book, and told me all about it. Its so we don't…we don't forget."

The girl, Isla, frowned at her elder, but settled down at her feet, sensing a story. Aiedail looked to the west, where she could just barely make out the shape of a white mountain in the distance. At a thought from her, the mountain moved and the head of a truly enormous dragon appeared, eyes as big as houses full of curiousity.

"Don't forget what, Gran?" Isla asked, eager to hear a tale from her oldest relation. Aiedail smiled at the child, the last of her line. This child was descended from her son Brom's daughter, from the line of Zaahira, the great-grandchild of Dauthleikr Rauthr, that abomination child that turned out to be the key to winning the war. She had strong blood in her veins, she would need it to face the trials that awaited her.

"Gran?" Isla tugged Aiedail's skirts, impatient with her stalling. Dail took a deep breath and rested her frail hand on the child's head.

"The past, child. We must never forget…the past."


	2. Snapshot One: Brom, 23, and Saphira, 13

**_Snap-Shot One: Brom, 23, and Saphira, 13  
_**

**Labeled: Brom and Saphira, just before Saphira was killed**

_A young man, his brown hair wind touseled, bright blue eyes dancing with laughter, leaned against a magnificent, sapphire blue dragon. They are a little ways away from a group of young Riders and their dragons, all dressed for patrol. The dragon's head is turned to look at her Rider and it is plain to all the bond they share._

* * *

Brom didn't remember how he got to the room.

Slowly, wincing from the pounding in his temples, he sat up and looked around. Clothes, his and a woman's, littered the floor, the single chair in the room was on its side and the pitcher on the wash-stand was dangerously close to falling off the stand. Next to him, a striking woman with long, nutmeg brown hair slept soundly. Brom frowned, rubbing his temples as he struggled to remember what had happened the night before. Had he paid for her, or met her at a tavern? Where exactly was he? What was her name? And most importantly, what time was it? Was he going to be late for patrol? He couldn't remember _anything_.

Tossing the covers back, he slowly swung his legs over the bed and rose, stumbling to the washstand and splashing water on his face. It did little to revive him, so he carefully pulled his clothes back on and crept from the room. Downstairs in the inn's dining area, he chose a secluded booth and ordered his standard sobering drink. After knocking back a few glasses of the revolting tonic, his head was clear enough for him to send a mental call.

_Saphira?_

He got a sleepy grumble for a reply and smiled. She had been affected by his night of drinking as much as he had. When she woke up, she would be as mad as an fhangur at him. It was almost worth the tongue lashing to see his normally calm, sarcastically pessimistic partner as mellow as an elf when he drank. He and Morzan had…

No. He would not think about the traitor today. The damn oathbreaker occupied far too much of his thoughts already.

Determined to have a good day, Brom paid for his drinks and the room, tightened his sword-belt, brushing his fingers reverently over the new, sapphire blue sword, _Andura_, and left.

_Saphira, wake up. We are back on shift at noon._

_Why didn't you think of that last night?_ she grumbled, allowing him to feel the stabbing pains she felt in her head. _I've told you again and again, I want you to find a vice that won't force me to deal with the side-effects! _From the groans she punctuated her complaints with, he figured she was moving around, finding the water-trough. As he walked through the streets of Illeria, continuing his mental conversation, he nodded to the people who greeted him with a slight bow and murmured "Argetlam". He waved to the few Riders he saw, easily identified by their rich cloaks of satin or silk, dyed to match their dragon's scales. He wore his, but it was wrinkled and dirty.

_Quit your whining and get something to eat, _he advised as he strode through the gates of the Riders' Citadel. _I'll be up there as soon as I get clean and eat something._

_Just you wait,_ she warned as she withdrew from the mental link, _I'm going to give you a piece of my mind when I see you._

_Funny, I thought that happened years ago,_ he mused, climbing the eastern stairs to the Riders' Quarters. He took a short cut to his rooms, passing the door to the right of his without looking in, as he had forced himself to do for the past three weeks, shoving any thought of the former occupant out of his mind. Quickly showering and changing, grabbing a premade packet of traveling food, dried fruits, meat and flat bread, to munch on as he hurried to the Dragonshold, he managed to get there, withstand Saphira's tongue lashing, and have them saddled and ready to patrol by noon. As they leapt into the sky to join their patrol, he sighed. Just a normal day in Illeria, life went on has it had before Galbatorix became a threat. Or so he thought.


	3. Snapshot Two: Arya, 102

**_Snap-Shot Two: Arya, 102_**

**Labeled: Arya, after Oromis died**

_A slim elfish woman stood in front of a window, her long black hair held back by a leather band. She gazes sadly out into the rain, pain and longing are written clearly on her face. Pasted next to that is another, of the same woman, but she is smiling, her emerald eyes alive and bright. She is curled up next to a striking man with brown hair and deep brown eyes, who is gazing at her with adoration in his eyes. Behind them, a beautiful dragon stares out into the rain, hiding them from the world._

* * *

Arya had never really liked the rain. It had always been raining when bad news, news that would shatter her world, arrived. A Dragon rider named Galbatorix had seized control of Doru Araeba and killed all the Riders. Her father, King Evandar, had died in battle. Kalimara, her closest friend and fellow Varden member, an elf she had known all her life, who had been her mentor and hero, was killed by Urgals. The thief the Varden had sent into Glabatorix's stronghold had gotten out with only one egg and disappeared.

As she stared out the window of the room she had appropriated, watching the rain hit the glass over and over, hard enough that she marveled it didn't break, she wondered if more bad news was on the way. She entertained the thought for a while, morbidly coming up with ways that it could arrive. Her mother had been killed. The third egg had hatched for Galbatorix. Eragon and/or Saphira hand been captured and/or killed. One of the other main leaders of the Varden had been killed.

_ Stop it, _she scolded herself, tearing herself away from such thoughts. _What is wrong with you? A little rain and you are contemplating the end of the world. Get a hold of yourself._

But she knew what was wrong. The same thing that was wrong every time a certain someone left the Varden's base. She was worried and lonely.

Arya was not stupid by any means, and she refused to lie to herself or confront her weaknesses. She knew what her feelings were towards the Varden's Rider and she knew they were inappropriate. She was the princess of the elves, the only direct heir to the Knotted Throne. She would someday, if they lived through this war, would become Queen. Eragon was the first Rider of the new generation, his dragon the last female left alive. If they succeeded in overthrowing Galbatorix, Eragon would become the First Rider, the Master Rider. Equal to, and indeed above the station she would one day hold.

And the most galling part of the whole mess was, when she had told him she didn't feel anything for him, it had been true. During those days of travel across the Empire with him, something had changed, she finally saw him for the man he had become, not the boy he had been.

The logical part of her told her she had been right to shut him down as she had, to insist they remain friends. But another part, one long denied and suppressed, weary of hiding, urged her to seize her chance, find Eragon and confess her feelings for him and beg him to take her. Yes, he had been a farmboy; yes, he had been human; yes, he was impulsive, rash and headstrong. But…_so what?_ His impulsiveness had had him hiding Saphira, his rashness to free her from Durza and, since she was alone in her head, she could admit, she admired his tendency to sink his teeth into an idea and not let go.

Rubbing her eyes, she scanned the scarred table that served as a desk, looked at the documents, ledgers and scraps of papers scattered across its surface. Suddenly, she was very tired, tired and sick of the war and the fighting and the death. Pushing herself away from the table, Arya strode out of the room, buckling her sword on as she slipped through the halls.

The Varden had taken over the home of Governor Lorana. Arya had taken a room in the south wing on the second story. There had been constant activity, meetings, war councils and plans being made in the past few weeks. Arya was glad Nasuada declared the day a rest day.

Slipping out of the mansion, she quickly made her way through the rain to the stable that had been converted into a dragonhold for Saphira. Arya had made a point of coming to see the dragon every day she was available. What had started off as a cautious, respectful visit soon became a time to relax and get to know the beautiful dragon.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn't realize she wasn't the only visitor until it was too late.

"Arya?"

Eragon's startled tone shocked her out of her stupor.

"Ah…hello Eragon," she said politely in the Ancient Language, touching her fingers to her lips. "I, uh, I came to see Saphira…" she trailed off as she realized the dragon was no where to be seen.

"She went hunting," Eragon explained, seeing the flash of confusion on her face. "She should be back soon."

"Oh." Casting around for something to say, her eyes kept wandering to look at him. He was stretched out on a pile of blankets, boots and socks kicked off, tunic half-undone, letting her glimpse his muscled chest. His hair was tousled, like he had just woken up and it inspired a fantasy that Arya had to fight very hard to get rid of. There was a stack of papers and a pencil in front of him, one side of the papers covered in Eragon's neat, precise letters. She latched onto them, hoping it would distract her.

"New plans?" she asked, nodding at the stack. To her surprise, he blushed and gathered the papers up, getting to his knees and starting to stuff them into a ledger.

"No. Something…else."

"May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, he slowly held out the pages. She took them and sat a few feet from him.

The first two pages held a poem, hastily penned, most of it crossed out and written over. The next few pages were more of the same, less crossing out as it went on, the words becoming more rhythmic. The last pages were the final poem. She read them aloud softly, entranced by the words written in the Ancient Language.

It spoke of a raven haired lady with eyes of emerald green, lauded her virtues and courage, of the way she slew a Shade and helped kill another. In the background, a man hovered, a Dragon Rider with a great destiny, who wanted nothing more than peace and to be able to love the lady openly.

Arya read the last time and stopped. It wasn't finished, it left the reader hanging. She looked up and met the author's eyes.

"Eragon…"

"No, Arya, I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to…I wrote that trying to wind down, its not…" he reached over to take the papers. "I am sorry if I have offended you again, Arya Svit-kona."

"Hush," she said, keeping a firm hold on the stack. "Its beautiful, Eragon, absolutely beautiful. But," she had to pause to gather her courage, "I do want to know how it ends."

"I…"

_ Oh, just kiss her already!_

They both jumped and turned to the door to see Saphira filling the space, an amused glint in her eyes, small pools forming around her ankles as the rain was diverted from its downward path by her girth. Arya blushed and turned to look at Eragon, who was glaring at the dragon.

"Eragon…"

"Arya, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to show you the poem and Saphira was completely out of line." The dragon snorted but held her peace, as far as Arya could tell. "I know you said you didn't feel anything for me, and I have been trying to do the same, but…"

"Eragon," she said sharply, cutting through his rant. Sliding over to sit directly in front of him, she took his face in her hands and before she lost her nerves, kissed him.

It took him a moment to process what she had done, but when he did, his arms slipped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. What had begun as an innocent meeting of lips changed when he started fighting her for control of the kiss, nibbling at her lips, teasing her, nudging them open with his tongue to taste her.

When they were forced to come up for air, they were both panting hard, but neither moved away. Arya couldn't make herself back away, she was enthralled by him. Despite how much time she had spent wit him over the past two years, she had never had an opportunity to just…look at him, take in his features, memorize them this closely. Her fingers traced his face, lightly brushing his cheekbones, nose and eye brows, flitting across his lips while she smiled at him. She could see the war he was waging with himself, struggling to keep himself under control. Tossing her normal standards and control out the window, Arya leaned close and kissed him again, this time _she _was the one attacking, sucking on his lip and invading his mouth.

"Forget what you've been taught, Rider," she whispered as she forced him backwards, slipping her hands under his tunic and nipping his ear. "Take me, I'm here. I'm yours."

And he did.

Later, after, Arya lay next to Eragon as he finished the poem. She had never felt so…_free_. Her entire life, she had been living up to someone's idea of the perfect Arya, striving to be the perfect daughter, the perfect ambassador, the perfect elf, so much so that…she might have forgotten who she really was. Eragon, she realized, was different. As she watched him, the light from the torch Saphira had lit casting an odd, golden light onto his skin, she realized what it was that had always baffled her about Eragon. He was the one person who had no preset notions of her, to him, she was perfect the way she was.

She must have made some noise when she realized it, because he looked down at her, puzzlement clear on his face. She smiled and moved closer to him, taking the pencil and papers and setting him aside, drawing him down next to her.

Perhaps, she thought with a soft sigh, the rain wasn't such a bad thing after all.

* * *

For all those that are wondering, yes, this is one of my ideas for how Arya and Eragon got together. I'm sure this is a much more sappy, emotionally over-killing version than what I originally thought when I started writing Aiedail Shadeslayer…four years ago? IDK, something like that. So yeah. Toodles!


	4. Snapshot Three: Morzan, 100

**_Snap-shot Three: Morzan, 100_**

**Labeled: Morzan and Murtagh**

_A little boy is crumpled on the floor, bleeding profusely from a deep wound on his back. Walking away, cloak flapping after him, a dark haired man leaves, never noticing the pain he has just caused._

* * *

"Where the hell is she?" Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn, shouted as he hurled a pitcher of wine at the wall. None of the assembled servants dared answer, afraid of calling attention to themselves. "You!" he growled, pointing to a trembling maid. "Are you going to tell me where that whoring bitch is?" The girl started shaking so badly she practically vibrated.

"I…I…I don't…I don't know, lord," she stammered. "Please lord, I…"

"Silence!" Morzan thundered. "You lie! You all lie! One of you will tell me where she is, or by the gods I'll kill you all!"

"I don't know," the maid sobbed, falling to her knees, still shaking with terror. "My lord, please, I don't kno…"

"_Garjzla_!" Morzan hissed. A bolt of red light hit her and she pitched forward, dead. He surveyed the gathered servants, his gaze lingering on any who fidgeted or even breathed deeply. "I'll do the same, or worse, to all of you, one at a time, until she is found. Get out of my sight!"

There was a stampede as the servants all headed to the door. No one noticed the small, dark-haired boy who slipped inside and watched with dark, intense eyes as Morzan paced and cursed, muttering dire promises of retribution to his missing wife.

"Papa?"

The singe word, spoken with he quiet curiosity of a child, set Morzan off again. He whirled an ddrew his lips back in a snarl when he saw the boy.

"Murtagh! Get out!" he boomed, picking up the thing nearest to hand. His blade, Zar'roc, laying unsheathed on the table. "Get out!"

Murtagh, scared by his father's sudden anger, turned to flee, but he wasn't fast enough for the enraged Morzan. Quick as a cobra, he cocked his arm back and hurled the sword at the fleeing boy.

The sword sliced through clothe and flesh as if they were butter, ripping the child's back from hip to shoulder. Murtagh screamed as he fell, a scream of disbelief and betrayal.

Morzan however, paid no attention to the bleeding, screaming child except to rub his temples as they started to pound from the noise. Calmly stepping over the torn body of his son, he picked up Zar'roc, cleaned the blade on his tunic and strode away, leaving his offspring to bleed out.

"You!" he called to the first servent he saw. The woman, an older matron who had served Morzan faithfully for years, trembled when her master approached. But instead of harming her, he cocked a finger over his shoulder, in the direction of the screams. "Take care of that pitiful brat. Shut him up somehow. His screaming is giving me a headache."


	5. Snapshot Four: Brom: Take 2, Part 1: 100

**_Snap-shot Four: Brom: Take Two, Part One, Age 100_**

**Labeled: Brom and Eragon, a few months after Eragon was born**

_A babe slumbered in the arms of a man whose face was lined with years of worry and hardship, his once shining nut brown hair long silvered and dull. The man's eyes held a spark, almost of hope. The portrait captured the exact moment the child reached up and grabbed hold of the man's finger, which had been tracing his face. The wonder and hope is clear on the man's face. Another time, this picture would have been titled, _The Father and His Firstborn_. But for this family, there would never be such title, no family ties ever voiced while both were alive. Perhaps, _Once_ would be a better title for this picture._

* * *

When I arrived in Carvahall, I was desperate to find Selena's family, to locate my child. I didn't know if it wa male or female, what it even looked like, its name, _anything_. But I did have one name, Garrow Cadocsson, Selena's brother. It would do for a start.

I was recognized by a few people in the little village, greeted by the young blacksmith, Horst. He had built a fine house since I last visited. I stopped by his smithy. People talked when getting something fixed at the blacksmith.

"Brom, wasn't expecting to see you again!" the big man said heartily. "How have you been?"

"Fine, just fine, Horst. And yourself?"

"Good, good. Elaine had our first child last year, a strapping boy," the man boasted, puffing out his chest. I smiled, nodded and gave all the expected congratulations. Well, that was one child crossed off the list.

"By the way," I said casually, "Where does, uh, Garrow Cadocsson live? Got a message from some noblewoman for him."

Horst snorted. "T'aint no noble lady, man! Its likely his sister, Selena. Showed up about eight, nine months ago, pregnant and no man in sight. Stayed til the babe was born, then up and disappeared."

"And her babe?" I asked, proud that I managed to keep most of the urgency out of my voice.

"Well, that's the funny thing. She left the babe with her brother. Elaine heard from Marian, Garrow's wife, that Selena begged them to keep him. Claimed the child would be in danger if anyone knew about him. Gave him a funny name, too. Eragon. Sounds elfish, don't you think?"

"Yeah, a bit," I agreed absently. I had more information in five minutes with Horst than I'd been able to gather on my own in months! "Well, I better be going. Goodbye, Horst."

"Bye Brom. Oh, Garrow's place! Right, its just outside town, past Gerturde's place. Can't miss it, Marian's got all kinds of flowers growing by the road."

"Thanks." And with that, I left.

Garrow's farm wasn't hard to find. As I trudged up the path to the house, I mulled over what I would say. Hi, I'm the father of your nephew, but no, not your sister's husband. And no, I'm not taking him with me, people will try to kill him. Yeah, that would be perfect.

I paused before knocking. Gods, this was harder than I thought it would be. I reminded myself I had killed Morzan, this should be easy. I knocked.

The door was opened by a small, pretty brunette. She had a tow-headed toddler on her hip and smiled when she saw me.

"Yes?"

"Is this the home of Garrow Cadonsson?" I asked, bowing a little. She flushed and nodded.

"Yes. I'm his wife, Marian. Garrow's out of town, he went to Therinsford. How can I help you?"

"I have a message for him, from a lady in Uru'baen. I suppose I can give it to you." I gave her what Selena had called my snake-charmer's smile. "May I come in?"

"Oh, of course. Come in, come in." She ushered me in, showed me through the neat, tidy house to the kitchen. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Brom."

"Can I get you anything, Master Brom? Something to drink?"

"No, thank you. You have a lovely home. I…"

My words were stopped as a wail sounded from a basket by the stove. Not a basket, I realized as Marian went to it and picked up a screaming baby. A crip.

"Hush Eragon, hush," she crooned, rocking the baby gently. My heart stopped. Eragon. _My son._

"This is my nephew," Marian said as the cries subsided. "He's usually a quiet baby, I don't know what happened."

"It's fine." I had to lock my joints to keep from leaping forward and snatching him away from her. "I have several nieces and nephews myself, I'm used to their cries."

Marian smiled. You seem very familiar, Master Brom. Have we met?"

"Perhaps. I've come around to Carvahall on business occasionally over the years."

"I see. Well…" There was a crash in the next room and a child's wails. Marian sighed.

"Roran. If you don't mind…" Before I knew what had happened, Marian stuffed the babe in my arms and disappeared into the next room.

I gazed down, amazed, getting my first good look at my son. A thatch of blonde hair covered the top of his head, though I guessed it would turn brown eventually. He had been asleep, but a few seconds later, he opened his eyes and stared at me with solemn, brown eyes. I could have wept. He had Selena's eyes. I closed my eyes and rested my hand on his forehead, calling on what powere I had left to me.

_"Atra gulia un celöbra tauthr ono un atra ono sköliro fra rauthr. Se mor'ranr ono finna, Eragon-elda."*_

It was probably the only blessing I would ever be able to give him. Hopefully, it would be enough. I prayed it would be enough.

* * *

*May luck and happiness and honor follow you and may you be shielded form misfortune. May you find peace, Eragon-elda.


	6. Snapshot Five: Galbatorix, 18

**_Snap-shot Five: Galbatorix, 18_**

**Labeled: Galbatorix and Jarnunvösk**

_A tall, handsome young man with white blonde hair and silver eyes sits on the back of a magnificent white dragon. The dragon's head is turned around to look at his rider, and the man is laughing. Pasted next to that is another of the man, his white traveling cloak stained with crimson blood, kneeling in the snow next to his dying dragon. Arms around the dragon's next, a nebulous of white energy engulfs his right hand, as he tried to heal the mortal wound._

* * *

_There is nothing that can compare with riding dragon-back,_ Galbatorix thought as he soared away from Illyria on Jarnunvösk's back, a white speck high in the sky.

He was eighteen and not a week before, he and his dragon had graduated from the Academy, the final stage in a Rider's training. They had graduated top of the class, as Galbatorix always knew they would. And today, they were joining their friends Jameson and Fell, and Damion and Altair, on a multiday trip to celebrate graduation. The six of them didn't have to report to Doru Araeba for a fortnight, so they were going to make a trip out of the flight. Galbatorix wasn't sure exactly where they were going, but Jarnunvösk had gotten directions from Altair in case the group got separated and he trusted Vösk's judgment.

_This is going to be fun,_ Galbatorix told his dragon. The brilliant white creature hummed and looked over his shoulder at his rider.

_We have worked hard to get this far,_ the dragon said, his voice low and rumbling. _And now we will rest before beginning the next big adventure._

_ Aye. Where do you think they will station us? Farthen Dur? Du Weldenvarden? Mayhap Doru Araeba herself?_

_ Where ever it is, we will protect and guard to the best of our considerable abilities, true?_

_ True. Hey, is that Fell?_

As they flew closer, they saw it was the red dragon and his rider. Jameson hailed them, flashing Galbatorix a huge grin.

"Ready for this?" the Rider asked excitedly. "Damion says we are going north, to Urgal territory. And them we head west to Doru Araeba."

"Urgals? Are you sure that's wise?"

"What could go wrong?" Jameson laughed as fell pulled away from them, taking the lead. "We're Riders, what can touch us?"

* * *

The snow was stained with blood.

Galbatorix looked around, counted the bodies. Damion, Jameson, Fell and Altair all lay slain in the snow, the once pristine white churned and red. Surrounding them, Urgals lay, dead or dying. As he picked his way through the carnage, calling for his dragon, one of the filthy beasts tried to grab onto him. A swift stroke from his sword and the Urgal's hands and head rolled away.

"JARNUNVOSK!" _Jarnunvösk, where are you?!_

_ Galb…here…_

_ Where? _When the dragon sent him a hazy picture of his location, he took off, calling on all the reserves of energy to reach his partner's side.

The dragon was laying on his side in a tiny clearing, his hide marred by giant, bloody tears, his life's blood spilling onto the snow.

"No!" Galbatorix cried as he fell on his knees by his dragon's head. "_Waise Heill_! Heal, Godsdammit!" Again and again he tried, over and over, but it was no use. While some of the wounds healed, the dragon had lost to much blood.

_Galb…I've got to…sever the connection. Don't want you to…go…mad…_

_ Hush, I'll fix this, its going to be okay._

_ Don't be stupid._ There was a hint of Jarnunvosk's former temper in his voice, but it was so weak, and he was fading fast.

_Just hang on, a little more._ Galbatorix tore strips from his tunic to bound around the wounds.

_I…I am…glad I hatched for…you…I…I'm sorry we didn't get to…get to…_

But Galbatorix never knew what he was sorry for. The dragon took one last deep, shuttering breathe and breathed his last.

And as the fire died in his chest, as the spirit left the body, Galbatorix screamed in pain and loss as his mind was torn apart, as the connection between him and his dragon was burned away, leaving him as half a person.

And thus the seeds of madness were planted…

* * *

See what happens when people review? They get more chapters! Thank you, KoK, you are my darlin'.


	7. Snapshot Six: Shadeslayers, 108, 23, 5

**_Snap-shot Six: The Shadeslayers, 108, 23, 5_**

**Labeled: Eragon, Arya, Jorium**

_A brown haired man carries a blonde boy on his shoulders, a broad grin on his face. Next to them is a smiling elfish lady, one hand on the boy's leg, her green eyes sparkling. The little family walks through the forest and the man is frozen pointing of the path to a family of deer. Above them, a blue dragon flies, head cocked so she can look down at her Rider and his family._

* * *

"Daddy's home, Daddy's home!"

As the boy burst into the throne room, running pell-mell towards the dais, yelling at the top of his lungs, Queen Arya looked up and smiled. He scampered onto the dais, wiggled through her gathered councilors and pulled in front of her, his green eyes wide with excitement, sparkling with joy.

"Momma, Daddy's here!" The boy bounced up and down, not able to contain himself.

"So I hear," she said, bemused. Standing, she took his hand and nodded to the gathered elves. "Excuse me gentlemen, but I believe I need to take my son to see his father."

The elves smiled and nodded, happy to let her go. All the elves were happy for their queen; when the old queen had died in battle and Arya had been forced to take the crown early. When she had revealed her mate and the soon to be born child, they had all celebrated, ecstatic for their ruler.

"Come on, Jorium, if we hurry, we might be able to get to the field before Daddy."

Arya smiled as she led Jorium through the corridors of Tialdarí Hall, keeping a firm hold on the boy's hand. The child was jumping up and down with excitement, he tried to tug his hand out of his mother's grasp to hurry ahead.

They reached the landing field just as a giant, sapphire blue dragon was landing. The boy finally got free of his mother and raced across the field, shouting in delight and jumped into his father's arms as soon as the man's feet touched the ground.

"Jorium, you little monster!" Eragon started tickling the boy, laughing at his cries of protest and delight.

"Daddy!" the boy squealed in delight when the tickling stopped, planting a kiss on his father's cheek. Eragon laughed and hugged his son, exclaiming over how big he had gotten. Saphira lowered her head to sniff the boy.

_Littlest one,_ she crooned in his mind, brushing the tip of her nose over his fair hair. Jorium laughed and kissed her nose.

"Saphira!"

Eragon started to ask his son where Arya was when he saw her, standing at the edge of the field, watching him. Quickly he set the boy down and strode across the grass, not even bothering to greet her before he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

"Hi," he said softly when they pulled away. She smiled.

"Hi. How was your trip?"

"Long." But before he could elaborate, Jorium came running up and attached himself to his father's legs.

"Walk!" he demanded. Eragon and Arya exchanged looks before Eragon swung the boy up into his arms and started tickling him again.

"You want to go on a walk, do you, you little monster?" he asked as Jorium squealed and flayed. Arya watched the father and son with a happy smile. This was what she wanted. The other stuff, the long hours she spent attending to her queenly duties, Eragon being gone for weeks, months at a time, it was all worth it when he returned and played with their son like this, when Jorium's eyes lit up at seeing his father. They had made mistakes, yes, perhaps they had been naïve, but seeing that look in Jorium's eyes, in Eragon's eyes, knowing the feelings in her own heart…

_Perhaps,_ she thought, as the little family started down a forest trail, Jorium sitting on his father's shoulders, telling him everything he had done while the man had been gone, _perhaps we were right. Perhaps…having Jorium really was the best thing to ever happen to us._

* * *

_While I was writing _Aiedail Shadeslayer_ 3, 4 years ago, I encountered a character, in the last few chapters, who made me think. It was just a reference, I was writing the end so furiously I didn't register his existence until I read it over after I came out of my "writing lust". His name was Jorium Eragonsson and he is Dail's older brother. From the timeline I drew up to help me keep dates straight, I figured he was born just after Galbatorix was slain, then he was killed just after Dail was born, sixteen years later. There are only two references to him, but that glimpse got me thinking. Who was this boy, this son who was killed by the Shade who would later be killed by his sister? What did he look like, act like, how did he effect Eragon and Arya's relationship, since he was born so early in their relationship, and children are regarded as the ultimate sign of love for elves. What were his dreams?_

_These thoughts have nagged at me ever since I finished Aiedail, springing up every time I reread my _Shadeslayer_ stories. I've sat down to write his story several times, but he never showed himself long enough to write, just giving me tantalizing glimpses, enough to heighten my interest as an author. But as I was writing my ideas for _Pictures_, he popped up again. So I put him on the list and continued writing. While I was writing the snapshot, _Brom: Take Two Part One, _he just jumped out and pushed Brom out of the way, demanding to be written. So I did._

* * *

_On another note, what do you guys want to see next? Any scene from either my stories or the three books so far you want me to write? Let me know and I'll do my best to satisfy._


	8. Snapshot Seven: Nasuada, 22, Murtagh, 23

**_Snap-shot Seven: Nasuada, 22, and Murtagh, 23_**

**Labeled: Nasuada and Murtagh**

_A beautiful dark skinned woman, her exotic coloring even more noticeable when contrasted with her snow white dress and veil, gazes after the dark haired man walking away. Longing, hurt and sadness taint the beauty of her face. At her feet, a brilliant red scarf lies, a reminder of days long past and young love lost._

_Next to it, the sides ripped and scarred, the dark haired man stands in front of an open window, staring out into the cloudless night sky. The moon shines on his bare flesh, dancing across his tanned arms and face, making the milky white of his chest and back glow. Across the room, a red headed woman sleeps on a tousled bed. As the man looks out into the night, a tear slipped down his cheek. It is frozen forever on the tip of his chin, just before it drops, forever a reminder._

* * *

Every girl dreams of her wedding day, even girls raised to be warriors and lead rebellions.

As Nasuada gazed at her reflection in the mirror, at the expensive dress and lace veil made by magic wielders, she wanted to cry. This was not what she had dreamed of as a little girl, this was not the fairy tale wedding and happily ever after she had wished for. Yes, she had been the leader of the Varden during the end of the war and was now all but queen in the new Alagaësia, but she still had a romantic heart and she had dreamed of marrying her prince charming, of ruling with him at her side. And for a while, that prince charming had possessed deep brown hair and eyes and rode a red dragon. But no more.

Today was her wedding day and it was not a love-match in the slightest, not even a _like_-match. Oh, she respected her future husband, well, sort of, but there was no way she would ever love him.

This marriage had been proposed as a way to unite Surda with the rest of Alagaësia. It was a political move, one which Nasuada knew was going to go a long ways towards gaining the complete peace they had been working towards for two years. But that didn't mean she liked her part in it.

One last glance out the window. One last moment of freedom before her fate was sealed and she would never be able to be with the one she truly loved.

"Get yourself together, girl," she hissed to her reflection. "He made it clear where things stand between us. If you can't respect that, at least think about what it would mean if you backed out of this marriage."

_But Eragon and Arya did it_, a little voice whispered to her. _Look at them, they are so happy together, with their son. And they are both leaders of their kind! Why can't we work things out?_

_ He doesn't want me, and that's that._

Furious with herself for wandering into such thoughts, she turned away from the mirror, only to smack into a wall of hard muscle. She stumbled back, only just managed to not fall over, but only because the intruder reached out and grabbed her arm.

She found herself staring into deep brown eyes, eyes full of pain and longing and love. Eyes she loved, eyes set in a handsome, _human_ face.

"Murtagh…" she whispered, too startled to say anything else. The Rider smiled and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair.

"Gods, Nasuada, I told myself I wouldn't come up here, I told myself I would be on the other side of Alagaesia…but I couldn't. Gods, I love you. I love you, I love you, and I can't live without you. Please, don't go through with this. Please, we'll work something out. Marry me, not that stupid, chemical mad man."

Nasuada's heart was in her throat, she was floating away from her body. She had dreamed of her hero coming to rescue her, to carry her away on the back of his dragon to a place where they could be together, forever. She sank into his arms, allowing herself to imagine, if only for a moment. A knock at the door broke through her illusion and reality crashed down around her.

"Mistress? Its time. Everyone is waiting for you."

"I'll be right there."

"Nasuada, come with me," Murtagh pleaded with her, the desperation evident in his voice. It broke her heart, it was like ripping it out and throwing it on the floor, but she pushed herself away and forced herself to put on a mask of indifference.

"No," she said softly, the steel in her voice wavering just a bit. "You left _me_, remember? You can't just come back one day, turn up _on my wedding day_ and expect me to just run away with you. I have duties, Murtagh, have you ever heard of that? Duties, responsibilities that I have to honor and carry through with. I promised Orrin I would marry him, and I keep my word. Its to late," she whispered, stepping to the door and putting her hand on the handle. "You lost me when you left, Murtagh."

"Nasuada, I…"

"Goodbye, Murtagh." Before she could give into her heart and run back to him, back into his arms, she left, pulling the heavy door closed firmly behind her.

There were some things, even dreams couldn't fix, one of which is a broken heart. And as she walked away, walked towards the great hall where all the nobles, human, dwarf and elf, waited, where King Orrin of Surda waited to marry her, with each step her heart broke a little more until, when she stepped into the hall and was greeted with a roar of approval and joy, there was little more than tiny, fragmented pieces that could never be put back together.


	9. Snapshot Eight: Eragon, 17, Ansel, 39

**_Snap-shot Eight: Eragon, 17, and Ansel, 39_**

**Labeled: Eragon, the Burning Plains. And Ansel, Galbatorix's palace.**

_An elfish-looking man stares across the Burning Plains, eyeing the aftermath of a battle. His dragon rests next to him, her blue scales reflecting odd colors from the sky._

_A noble elf, dressed in rags, his silver hair knotted and dull, kneels in front of an open box, awe and wonder, mixed with disbelief, all show on his handsome face. At his feet, a tiny dragon, emerald scales gleaming in the dim torchlight, nudges his knee. Beside it are the fragments of its egg._

* * *

_What we see is what we get; all that is here is all that there is._

_ No longer are we invincible, proud and straight,_

_We are bound by mortality, held at the Gate._

Eragon repeated the verse in his mind, wondering where he had heard it. He gazed at the strangely colored sky. It had been three days since the battle of the Burning Plans. The scene before him was eerily similar to the one he had viewed after the battle of Farthen Dûr.

_ But this time we are not going to lose our leader._

_ What troubles you so, little one?_ Saphira's gentle voice calmed Eragon's nerves.

_ So much has happened in the past two years. When will it end, Saphira?_

_ I have no answers for you, little one. Dragons do not believe in fate, but I believe that it was more then happenstance that brought me to you that day._

Eragon hugged his dragon. _Thank you Saphira. You always know what to say to make me feel better, don't you?_

_ Yes,_ she said smugly. He laughed then turned back to the plains.

_ There is so much death. And all to bring a mad man down from his throne._

_ LOOK!_ Saphira's bugle made everyone on the plains look up. Far to the north, the sky was lightening and the smoke was clearing. Before long, the faint clang of armor reached Eragon's fine tuned elfish ears.

_ The Elves! _Eragon leapt on to Saphira's back. _We need to tell Nasuada._

_ Right. _With a thrust of her powerful back legs, Saphira took off, and soared toward the camp. Nasuada was waiting for them.

"My lady, the elves Queen Islanzadí sent have come," Eragon told her. "They should be at the tents soon."

"This is wonderful news! I will send someone to find Arya immediately."

"Nasuada, when the elves arrive, they have been ordered to place themselves under my command. Roran and I are leaving tomorrow, so I am going to give the command to Arya."

"That is wise. When do you expect to return from your quest?" Nasuada asked.

"At the most, a week. We hope to be back within a few days though."

"Very well. Take care, Eragon Shadeslayer. We still need you, so don't do something stupid and get yourself killed."

Eragon smiled and bowed. "Yes ma'am." He bowed again and left the tent.

_ Why are you so polite to her?_

_ Because she _is_ the Varden leader._

_ So? She is just being nice to you so you will stay with the Varden._

_ What are you talking about?_

_ I am saying she is a fraud, a scam, a…a…argh!!!! _Saphira shot a fireball above the camp. Eragon raised an eyebrow at her.

_ Come on Saphira. She is the Leader of the Varden. What are you saying? Nasuada is a…_

_ …a lying bitch? _Saphira interrupted. Eragon growled.

_ No. She is a wonderful leader and you know it. How many women would be on the front lines, leading their soldiers?_

_ Arya?_

Eragon pulled up short. _What is that supposed to mean?_

_ Nothing._

Eragon stalked away from her. He wandered around the camp, greeting the people who hailed him and stopping to talk to the people he knew.

"Eragon!"

The Rider turned around to see Angela running after him. He grinned.

"Hello Angela. What can I do for…" Angela's fist connected with his chin. He flew backwards.

"What is this I hear about you leaving in the morning?" she demanded. He glared up at her.

"What was that for?!" he retorted. Angela growled and planted her feet wide, her eyes blazing.

"Did you forget your promise to Elva? The poor girl is on the floor, writhing from the pain of the warriors' wounds. You have to lift the curse from her, Eragon! She might DIE from the pain, if she doesn't kill herself to stop it first!!"

Eragon took a step back. He smacked his head with his hand, worry shooting through his brain.

"Gods above, I forgot about that! Where is she?!"

Angela gave him a hard stare before leading him to her tent. She motioned him inside.

Elva was twitching and writhing, her eyes closed and her breath coming in short, quick gasps.

"I gave her a potion to help her rest, but even in her rest she still feels the pain. Eragon, you have to lift this spell!!"

Nodding, the Rider took off his gloves and knelt next to the cot, placing his hands on the girl's forehead. Speaking the words Oromis had taught him, the Rider worked to free her of her curse. As the power drained out of his body, Saphira lent him strength. Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt an easing of Elva's form, but still the spell sucked his energy. Eragon and Saphira were starting to see spots when a new mind touched theirs.

_ Take my strength,_ a female voice, Arya's voice, said. New energy surged through the pair and the spell continued. Together, the three worked to break the curse.

After what seemed like hours, Elva's eyelids fluttered and she slowly opened her eyes. As she did so, the spell ended. Eragon got one glimpse of her surprised face before he blacked out.

*********

_What we see is what we get; all that is here is all that there is._

_Once something is lost, it can not be found, _

_A child that is gone, no longer around._

_All that we see is not all that is _

_There is something beyond our sight _

_Something great, that calls to us_

_ Something that flows like the sand._

"Boy, get those dishes up to the armory! The guards need to eat!"

Ansel flinched as the cook hit his back with her wooden spoon. Grabbing the tray of food, he hurried out of the kitchen, eager to avoid another beating. As he climbed the stairs to the armory, he wondered how he had ended up like this, eager to please _humans_.

He was Ansel StarBow, the youngest son of Breol ArgetDail, Silver Star, a noble elfish family. He was thirty-nine years old, an adult by his people's reckoning, but he looked like he was sixteen at the most. He had been captured twenty years ago and Galbatorix, half mad with his delight over capturing an elf, had enslaved him, forcing him to daily drink the drugged water that suppressed his magical abilities and had made him a kitchen slave, wearing filthy clothes and, most disgracing of all, a slave ring, the thick iron ring around his neck that proclaimed to all that he, an elf whose ancestry could be traced back to the first elfish kings, was not worth more than the spit dog.

"Finally! Took your own damn time, didn'tcha, elf?" the guards sneered when he gave them their food. He forced down a retort, the memory of the last time he had snapped back at a castle guard still fresh on his mind. With a deferential bow, he placed the tray before the guards. He waited patiently for them to be done, knowing the cook would take it out of his hide if he returned without the trays.

"Oi, elf!"

Ansel looked up when the guard yelled at him. The ugly, burly man was pointing into the armory with one beefy finger.

"Everything in there is filthy. Clean it all up before the next shift comes!" They laughed as if it was all a big joke. With a sigh, Ansel went to the bucket of dirty water and filthy rags just inside the door and set to work. It wasn't like he had a choice. He was a slave, he did as he was told. That was the end of it.

As he cleaned, the words to an old lullaby came to mind. He couldn't remember the tune, but the words were clear.

_Hush little one, Momma is near_

_There is nothing to worry your sleep,_

_You are loved and protected, ever so wanted_

_Your father is by the door,_

_Sword ready to protect us_

_Your sleep will be undisturbed, my child,_

_Until you wake with the dawn's light._

It had been years since he had thought of the song. His mother had sung it to him every night as a child, he had fallen asleep to it, secure in the knowledge that he was safe and loved.

He started chanting it under his breath in the Ancient Language, as it had been written. Though he couldn't remember the tune, he made up his own, so the words and song were in harmony. As he sang, his hands ran over an old strongbox, the metal tarnished and boards warped. He lifted it so he could get a better angle to clean. With a soft _whump_, the bottom gave out, the contents scattering across the floor. He looked around guiltily, hoping none of the guards had heard the noise. As carefully as possible, he put the box back in its place and gathered the contents, worrying over how he would put it back together. He was so flustered, he jerked back when his hand touched something smooth and round, like polished rock. On closer inspection, he jerked back again, this time in disbelief. He had seen pictures of these in school, nests of them together, gleaming like patches of rainbows. _A dragon egg._

Before he could do anything, even try to put it back, the egg started rocking and a high pitched peep echoed in the chamber. The guards at the door looked up and scowled when the saw Ansel. He grabbed one of the fallen objects, a wrapped box and held it up.

"I dropped this on my foot," he told them, managing to hide his excitement behind a mask of embarrassment. The guards roared with laughter and turned back to their card game, murmuring among themselves about the stupid elf.

Retreating to the back of the room, behind some of the shelves of shields, Ansel hid with the egg, using what little magic he was able to summon to make it quiet, so no one would hear what was happening. As he watched, the egg twitched and rocked; the peeping getting louder and louder. Minute cracks appeared in the shell, spidery veins in the deep emerald. Then, a piece broke off and from there it was a blur; the dragon hatched so fast, Ansel's head spun.

It was a beauty, its scales dark from the egg membrane, but they shone the same emerald color as its egg. It was perfect, from the tip of its nose to the end of its barbed tail. It stretched is wings, so disproportionate to the rest of its body and turned its head to look at him. Even in the dark of the corner, he could see the bright green ringed with gold.

"Skulblaka," he whispered, reaching out to touch it. The dragon extended its nose to meet his fingers. As soon as they touched, a spark of electricity leapt from dragon to elf and Ansel fell back, writhing in pain. He knocked into a shelf and a few bundles fell down, fortunately the shield was still up and no noise was heard by the guards. But when the pain stopped, Ansel lay breathing hard, watching in disbelief as an uneven white oval formed in the palm of his left hand. The gedwëy ignasia. He was a Rider.

----------------

A little A/N. I actually began writing this snapshot a few years ago, intending to make a full story out of it. Perhaps I still will. But obviously, it ignores book 3, which, if you think about it, most of my stories still do. ;) Anyway, enjoy and review!

And Nicci Death'sMistress, you're pretty awesome, thanks for letting me know I had the wrong chapter up!


	10. Snapshot Nine: Galbatorix, 9

**_Snap-shot Nine: Galbatorix, 9_**

**Labeled: Galbatorix Tyrsson, Age 9**

_A small, white haired boy sits outside of a window, listening to his parents argue. A smile is on his lips and his odd, silvery eyes gleam with excitement over what he is hearing. _

* * *

Galbatorix looked out the front window of his house, eagerly watching for his father.

At the age of nine, Galbatorix was a small bundle of energy. His hair was light blonde, so light it was almost white. He watched the rest of the world through deep, wide-set silver eyes. At the moment, he was nursing a split lip from a fight with his brother, Æthelstan, who was two years his elder.

Galbatorix let out a whoop of delight that quickly turned to a yelp of pain when he saw his father.

Tyr of Inzilbêth, a minor lordling who made a living as a spice merchant, smiled when he saw his young son come racing through the front door.

"Hello Galbatorix," he said cheerfully. His smile quickly changed to a frown when he saw the blood on the boy's face. "What happened to you?"

"Æthelstan hit me," he replied, taking great delight in the expression on his father's face. Galbatorix knew Tyr wouldn't stand for family violence and would punish Æthelstan, even though Galbatorix had provoked him a bit. The anger left Tyr's face when he looked up and saw his wife in the doorway.

Faydra Karonasdaughter was a pretty young woman of two and twenty. She had married the widower Tyr six years before and had given him a son soon after the wedding. Galbatorix always had a vague sense of dislike for the woman, though she was like a mother to him. Something about the way she treated him and his sisters and brothers made him uneasy, even at his young age.

"Don't lie to your father, Galbatorix," Faydra said sternly.

"What really happened, Faydra?" Tyr asked as he walked up the path to the door. Faydra sighed.

"Æthelstan and Galbatorix were playing quietly in the courtyard. I went inside to get a needle and when I came back a moment later, they were fighting." Tyr nodded.

"I'll deal with it later. For now, I need to speak to you." Taking Faydra's arm, he drew her into the house. After a few minutes, Galbatorix followed them into the house. Once he entered the main hall, he took off for the back of the house where he found his twin playing with dolls.

Merana was her brother's opposite. While Galbatorix was small and fine featured, Merana was tall and heavy boned. Galbatorix's hair hung in white blonde waves while Merana's dark brown hair fell straight past her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep black while his were silver mercury.

"Merana, will you play with me?" he asked. His twin shook her head.

"No. Go ask Dion."

Galbatorix wrinkled his nose at her suggestion. Dion, his second oldest brother, was five years older then him. The black haired boy was almost never seen without his nose in a book. Galbatorix regarded Dion as a necessity to life, for he was always able to convince Dion to do most of his schoolwork for him, but not good for much else.

"What are you doing, Galby?" a small voice behind him said. Galbatorix grit his teeth and turned around slowly.

A boy about six years old was watching him. His auburn hair hung around his chubby face. Galbatorix clenched his small fists and bit back a stinging reply.

Evan was his half brother, the son of Faydra and Tyr. Galbatorix had never really liked his younger brother. Something about the way Tyr treated the younger boy, like he was gift from the gods, vaguely disturbed him.

"Go away Evan," he said shortly. The younger boy looked hurt, but the older boy ignored him and rushed out of the room, up the stairs and into his room. Making sure no one was around; he carefully twisted the knob of the door until it wouldn't turn anymore. When he released it, it stayed where it was. Good.

Carefully, he pulled himself out of the window and slowly, silently, made his way over the roof to the window of his parent's room.

"It's a great opportunity, Faydra. How many families get _asked_ to have a child touch the eggs? Most people just come and the Rider's can't refuse them, because what if a future Dragon Rider is among them? But so few are chosen, asked to come because the leaders of the city think there are exceptional. Think about it, Faydra. They _want _him. He'll be honored and we know he is almost certain to have an egg hatch for him!"

"Tyr, I don't know," Faydra answered worriedly. "Don't you think it might be a good idea to wait, talk about this a little? I mean, we have six months; he doesn't turn ten for four more months. Let's talk about this before we jump into it blindly."

"While I see why you think we should, I don't," Tyr said firmly. "I've already accepted. Galbatorix is going to the trials."


	11. Snapshot Ten: Selena, 16, Morzan, 83

**_Snap-shot Ten: Selena, 16, Morzan, 83_**

**Labeled: Selena Lenasdaughter and Morzan Argetlam**

_A beautiful girl with long, curled brown hair and sparkling brown eyes twirls around a field with two other girls, laughing in delight. A ways away, a dark haired man stands, arms crossed, watching with hooded eyes trained on the girl._

* * *

"Girls, there is someone coming!!!" Tara was jumping up and down, clapping her hands. Selena and Daisy ran to join her.

"Do you think it is your father, Daisy? He is supposed to return soon," Selena said. Daisy shook her head.

"No. Father's horse is brown. That horse is white."

"White?" Tara looked again at the approaching horse and rider. "No one in Carvahall owns a white horse. I wonder who it could be."

"Who ever it is, it is not your business, Tara." Selena and the other girls started at the voice behind them. Selena whirled around, her pretty face scrunched in a scrawl.

"Garrow, do you have to do that all the time? How many times have I told you not to do that!?"

Garrow shrugged. He was four years older than Selena. Garrow did not share his sister's wild, bubbly personality. Solid and sober, Garrow was about as much fun to play with as an old bull in Selena's opinion.

"Come on, girls, it is time we started on home."

"Oh, leave us alone, Garrow. Go bug Marion." Selena's friends giggled. Marion was the daughter of the tanner. Everyone in Carvahall knew that Garrow was going to ask for her hand, compliments of Selena and Co.

"Selena, one day that tongue of yours is going to get you in big trouble."

"Uh, Selena?" She turned to Daisy, who was tugging at her sleeve and gasped.

The traveler was standing right in front of her, hooded in a black cloak.

Selena quickly took in the fine cut and quality of the stranger's clothes. Dropping a graceful curtsy, she said, "Greetings, traveler. What brings you to the far north of Carvahall?"

"Selena!!" Garrow was shocked that his sister would address someone like that.

The hood fell back and Daisy and Tara gasped as the features of the man were revealed.

Selena stood shell shocked, drinking in the face of the figure before her. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. His face look like it had been carved by a god. His red blonde hair shone in the sunset and the bluest eyes Selena had ever seen sparkled at her. She had to force herself not to step back from him.

The traveler appeared not to notice the affect he had on the girls. Instead, he turned to Selena.

"So…your name is Selena?" he said, his voice deep and rich, enchanting. She nodded, unable to speak. "Named after the moon goddess, I suppose? It is fitting, since the goddess is supposed to be the most beautiful creature in the world. Hmmm…" He looked her up and down. She _was_ very beautiful, he decided. Silky black hair frame sparkling brown eyes. Her face and forearms were tanned, but her upper arms, which showed because her sleeves were unlaced, were a pale color that reminded him of the moons light. Yes, she did her name justice.

Selena cocked her head. "Yes, actually. Though I thought that those from outside Palancar Valley called her Luna."

He grinned. No woman he knew had such a quick mind. "Yes, but I have spent a good deal of my life in Palancar Valley. I was born in Therinsford."

"Oh, well then, welcome to Carvahall. I am Selena as you already know, this is my brother Garrow, and my friends, Daisy and Tara." Daisy and Tara dropped quick curtsies. The stranger bowed in return then focused on Selena.

"I am Morzan," was the man's response. Daisy and Tara covered their mouths in shock and Garrow took a step forward to draw Selena back. But she quickly stepped out of his reach and stood before the Rider, head held high and took her time looking his over again. She bit her lip to hold back a smartass remark and smiled.

"Well, I see the reports on the King's Riders have been wrong, because I don't see horns or fangs or anything demonic about you," she said calmly. Then she dropped a deep curtsy. "Will you return to the village with us, lord? I am sure we can find a suitable meal and a place for you to stay."

Morzan smiled, flashing white, white teeth and held out his hand to Selena, who took it unhesitatingly. "Very well. Lead the way, moon maiden."

* * *

I adapted this scene from one of my other Shadeslayer stories, like the other two. This one was one I wrote about Morzan and Selena, how they met. I started it a long time ago and never finished. *shrugs* well, at least it has some use, instead of just taking up room on my hard drive.


End file.
